by Belva Plain
Even in December it was beautiful here. When trees were bare, one saw the true grace of their branches, upraised like arms. Crows, surely not pretty birds, had their own grace, too, as they rose from their perches and sped down the sky. In the woods that framed Gran’s property there was, to an eye aware of colors, among the pines and spruce, the hemlock and firs, an abundance of greens: olive and grass and moss; there was even the dusty blue of a single Colorado spruce, an exotic loner among all those native greens. It could not have grown there by natural accident; her grandfather must have planted it. I should paint that sometime, she thought, exactly as it is, or maybe, better still, in the flicker of summer sun and shade.
All those people cooped up in the house right now could be taking a hike through the woods on the trail that Gran kept cleared for the Scouts. But no, they were nursing their grievances instead, some of them so old that they would never be uprooted. It would be easier to uproot that spruce with a toy shovel.
Near the edge of the pond there was a rock, remembered from Ellen’s childhood, with a flat ledge on which one could sit. From there you could see the whole pond as far as the juncture with the larger lake.
“Sit down for a minute with me,” she said to Lucy, “and look around. Tell me what you see.”
After making a full circle turn Lucy said, “You told me the leaves all fall off when it’s cold, but that tree has leaves.”
“It’s called a pin oak, and it’s the only one that loses its leaves in the spring, when all the other trees are getting new ones.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know. I’ll find out, though, and then I’ll tell you.”
And she would have to find out, because Lucy would be sure to remember and ask her. She was an intense little girl, eager and curious. They had not needed the school psychologist to tell them how very bright she was. Ellen smiled to herself, thinking that it required a deal of energy to keep up with this first-grader. Freddie, on the other hand, was quite different; a much more placid baby than Lucy had ever been, he was sitting comfortably on her lap with the pacifier in his mouth.
“It’s too cold,” Lucy said.
“You’re right. It’s growing colder. Let’s walk around the edge, nearer to the swans, and then hurry back to the house.”
It was so quiet and calm here alone with her children! She was reluctant to leave it. But a fine sleet was now starting to fall, stinging one’s face.
“Come on, let’s run. See? The swans made a long path, breaking the ice, so they can swim. They do it pushing with their chests. It’s hard work.”
Three floated, their orange beaks proud and high, their ruffle-edged white wings like ballet skirts.
“Those must be the father and mother with one of their grown children who hasn’t flown away yet,” Ellen explained. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“I want to pet one.”
“Oh, you can’t. They’re swimming.”
“But if they walk over here on the ice?”
“You mustn’t. They don’t like it. Swans can be fierce. Even the dogs are afraid of them.”
“Do they bark at the dogs?”
“No, these are mute swans. That means they don’t make much noise, just grunts sometimes. When they’re babies, they peep a little, that’s all.”
“Where do the babies live?”
“In a nest, the same as little birds do. You remember the nest they showed you at school.”
“A swan’s nest has to be much bigger,” Lucy observed.
“Much bigger. About as big as our sofa at home.”
“Where is it?”
“Way over on the other side. I don’t think it’s even there anymore in the winter.”
“Let’s look for it.”
“Not now. Hey, the sleet’s really coming down. Let’s run.”
“I want to see the nest.”
“No, Lucy. I said no.”
“But I’ll be right back, I promise.”
“No, Lucy!”
“Right back, Mommy!” And she was gone, racing over the ice toward the swans.
“Come back! Back, Lucy!” screamed Ellen.
In horror, screaming, tearing her throat, she stood there as Lucy ran; the swans, with a great splash and spread of wings, rose into the air when Lucy plunged and disappeared. Black water closed over her.… For an instant Ellen looked wildly about. Then, setting the heavy baby down on the grass, she ran onto the ice, slipped, fell, got up, and slid into the water.
In the library Mark and his parents were still a group apart. He was on the window seat looking out toward the pond, musing to himself.
“What a queer situation I’m in today. I’ve always liked Cynthia, and I like Andy too. We used to play tennis sometimes, singles on Sunday mornings. But I can’t very well go talk to either of them without hurting the other.”
Brenda sighed. “Poor souls. To lose a child—that’s the worst of all.”
Half hearing, Aaron shuddered. “Two of them.”
He had been absorbed in his own thoughts, feeling the atmosphere of this house, this room with its portraits and books. He was thinking about the people who had lived here, old-line Americans, at home for generations in the same neighborhood among trees that were centuries old. It must be a good feeling, he thought without envy, merely ruminating. In a locked glass-fronted bookcase apart from the rest of the books in the room, he read titles: Dickens, Balzac, Thackeray.… How is it that a man brought up with all these good things can be as hateful as Gene Byrne?
Then at once came the retort: And what made you so hateful toward him, Aaron? You were never brought up to hate.
“Look,” he said, beckoning to his son. “These must be first editions, don’t you think? What a treasure! All these great minds—”
It was exactly then, in the middle of a sentence, that he heard his son’s dreadful cry.
“What— What?”
“In the pond. Oh, God, they’ve fallen in!”
Brenda screamed and ran to the window. “Where? Where? I don’t see—”
But Mark and Aaron were already fleeing through the hall and out, down the steps to the lawn.
In the hall, doors were opening. From the kitchen, the snuggery, the sunroom, and from everywhere, people were staring.
“What is it? What happened?”
“What on earth?” Gene cried. Brenda’s screams had annoyed him. “What’s all this racket?”
“Ellen!” Brenda screamed back at him. “Ellen—they’ve fallen into the pond!”
Then everyone ran. Without coats they ran out into the falling sleet, stumbling and sliding down the hill behind Mark and Aaron.
The channel of water was narrow, not much wider than the swan who had forced it open. One edge was jagged, where the ice had broken under Ellen’s weight as she plunged in. Now Mark plunged in to grasp Ellen as, in her thick down jacket and heavy shoes, she struggled.
“Lucy! Lucy!” she implored.
“Rope! Rope!” Lewis cried helplessly.
Under his weight a piece of ice had cracked, and he jumped backward. On either side of the channel the ice was crumbling.
Andrew came running with rope. “In my trunk.” He gasped. “Can you reach—” And he held the rope out to Mark.
“No! No! It’s Lucy.” He was weeping. “She wouldn’t—”
At once Andrew grasped his meaning. She wouldn’t know enough to catch or hold on to the rope. The pond was fifteen or twenty feet deep. The child was at the bottom. What if the rope were not long enough anyway?
The four men, for Gene had come up behind the others, stood for a second as if mesmerized by despair until Andrew, prepared to jump in, took off his shoes and was then abruptly pushed aside.
“Let me. Tie the rope around my waist,” Daisy commanded. She dropped her shoes and her skirt. “Pray God it’s long enough. Tie it as low as you can. Give me three minutes. If I haven’t jerked the rope, pull me up.”
Ellen had collapsed onto
Mark’s shoulder. Aaron and Gene were trying to pull them both up onto the ice, but without a rope it was almost impossible. Meanwhile, Andrew was holding with both hands on to the rope, which had by now grown taut. The rope was either too short, or else Daisy had reached the bottom and perhaps—only perhaps—found Lucy.
There was no sound except for the steady tinkling of sleet upon the ice. The horrified little group of watchers on the rapidly whitening grass stood speechless and unmoving in the arctic cold. Like people watching a disabled plane attempt a landing while emergency equipment was prepared for disaster, their eyes were large and their lips hung open. Even the dogs stood still, as if they knew that something out of the ordinary was happening.
After who knew how long, Andrew felt a tug on the rope. “She’s pulling!” he shouted. And when Lewis sprang to help him, protested, “No, let me. I’m younger than you, and you’ve got a bad back.”
Instantly, Gene sprang to help, leaving Mark with one arm around Ellen and the other forearm resting in a vain attempt to lift himself onto the slippery ice. Together, gradually, Andrew and the two brothers pulled, fought for footing, slipped, fell, got up and pulled some more, until at last Daisy’s head appeared above the water. She was blue in the face. Her hair streamed and she had no breath left, but she was holding Lucy to her chest.
From the huddled group of women on the grass came a cry. All, even Jenny, came running. Gene seized Lucy, while Daisy, her chest heaving, sank down on the ice.
“Get back, all of you,” warned Andrew. “It’s not solid so near the edge. Get back.”
The little girl lay lifeless, her long hair dripping and her legs dangling in Gene’s arms. “Oh, God,” he groaned, “she isn’t breathing.”
Aaron snatched her away from Gene. “Give her to me.” And he began to run toward the grass.
“If someone, for Christ’s sake,” Mark yelled, “will take Ellen, please? I can’t hold on much longer.”
Andrew and Lewis, who had been tending Daisy, ran with the rope, tied it tightly around the two of them and pulled. Mark, faint from exhaustion and cold, stumbled onto the ice. Ellen was unconscious.
“My God,” Andrew murmured, “the water’s got to be thirty-two degrees.”
All was helter-skelter. Then Aaron, tense and brusque, laid Lucy on the grass and took command.
“Lay Ellen down. Somebody get Daisy back to the house. Quick! She needs warm, dry clothes, blankets, and hot drinks. Right now!” The words came out like bullets. “You—what’s your name—Andrew, can you do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”
“No, but if you show me, I can—”
Lewis broke in. “I’ve done it. Where shall I—”
“Then let Andrew take your wife to the house. You, Lewis, do Ellen. I’ll take the baby. Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Neither mother nor child, lying side by side, was breathing. “Do what I do. Look. Move the head back and forth as far as you can. Watch me. Back and forth. Back and forth. Open the airway. Pinch the nose. No, like this. Pinch. Now fit your mouth on hers, tight fit, blow. Get the air flow.…”
Sleet poured over Aaron, who knelt there trying to pour life into his little grandchild, and over Lewis, who was doing the same for his brother’s child.
Gene and the women stood waiting, trembling in their light clothing. No one stirred. Annette wept silently. Mark was supine on the grass. Cynthia, clutching the baby, watched her father. In awe Brenda watched her husband; she was confident; if it could be done, Aaron would do it.
Time passed; whether it measured two minutes or twenty, no one there would ever be able to estimate. They would say only that it was an eternity.
Suddenly, Lucy struggled and coughed. A stream of water flew out of her lungs; she began to cry, and vomited. Mark forced himself to his tottering legs and took her, wet, sobbing, and shaking, into his arms.
A few minutes later Ellen brought up a stream of water. In confusion she tried to rise, and then, as she opened her eyes and reality flowed back, she became hysterical.
“Lucy! Where’s Lucy? Where’s Freddie? Oh, for God’s sake, what happened to Freddie, I left him—”
“Freddie’s fine. Cynthia has him. And Lucy’s right here. Look. She’s all right too. Take it easy, Ellen. Take it easy,” Lewis whispered. “There she is with Mark. And here’s your father.”
“We need a car, we need help,” Aaron said. “They can’t walk back.”
But Marian, practical Marian, had thought of that and was already partway up the hill toward the parked cars. A few moments later her four-wheel drive came bumping over the grass, and Ellen, with Lucy clinging to her, was lifted in.
“The rest of us had better hotfoot it to the house,” Aaron said. “We’ve been out here for a good twenty minutes or more, and hypothermia is no joke.”
Soaked and shivering, with frozen fingers and feet, all those who could not fit into the Jeep ran toward the house.
An hour later everyone was gathered in the library, where Jenny, while the survivors were being cared for upstairs, had built a grand log fire. Close to its heat and crackle a big chair held Ellen with Lucy on her lap, both of them drowsing under a thick red blanket. On the other side of the fireplace, in a pair of similar chairs and also covered with blankets, sat Mark and Daisy, with Freddie and a pile of blocks on the floor between them. On a table within easy reach was a large tray with a varied assortment of hot drinks, ranging from brandy to coffee to cocoa for Lucy. Annette, remembering that sugar was the quick remedy for exhaustion, had added a plate of sugar cookies.
“What else can a person like me, at my age, do but give food?” she asked Marian. “I should be doing something more, but I don’t know what. I’m still trembling, and I feel useless.”
“Useless? You’re the last person to say that about herself.”
“My loyal friend is speaking.”
“No, it’s the truth.”
“I couldn’t have managed today without your help, Marian.”
“It wasn’t much, but I’m glad I could do it. Now I’d better go home.”
“You’re sure you won’t stay to dinner?”
“I’ll stay another half hour. But the weather’s getting worse, and I want to get back before dark.”
The room was very still except for the sound of the fire. Those near to it were recuperating, and the others, Annette thought, were naturally respecting their rest. But it also occurred to her that this was the first time since any of them had entered the house today when they had all been in one room together. They were still scattered over a large space. Gene was on the sofa next to her. Andrew had drawn a straight chair near to the sofa, with the dogs at his feet. Cynthia, as far away from Andrew as she could get, was with her father on the other side of the room, near Daisy; they made a loose grouping with Aaron and Brenda. Such remarks as were made among them all were murmured and inaudible at Annette’s end of the room. After the day’s shock, she supposed, when during those awful minutes at the scene we all stood in total silence wondering whether Ellen and Lucy were alive, this would be a normal reaction; or would it be more normal now to let one’s emotions bubble and bubble over? She really did not know. She only knew that somebody must eventually say something.
So she raised her voice loud enough to be heard by everyone and inquired, “Are you all feeling any warmer?”
Aaron Sachs responded, “I know I am, but how are you, Mrs. Byrne?”
“Daisy,” said Daisy in her crisp fashion. “And I’m fine, thank you.”
“You’re my all-time heroine, Aunt Daisy,” Mark told her. “For the rest of my life … I don’t know … I can’t express it.”
“Two and three quarter minutes by my watch without taking a breath,” Andrew said. “Right up to the limit.”
“A heroine,” Aaron echoed. “A heroine with good lungs.”
Annette glanced at Gene, who cleared his throat and leaned down to stroke Roscoe’s head. When he looked up, he spoke almost shyly. “Yes. It seems that there are no better word
s than thank you, Daisy. Two syllables to weigh against a child’s life.” His voice broke. “Thank you. Thank you, Daisy.”
For another few minutes no one spoke. Then Lewis was heard.
“There were a couple of young fellows at the club who went in for swimming under ice. Kind of crazy—very crazy. But Daisy did it one day. They showed her how. I was angry at her. She’ll dare anything, Daisy will.”
A little prickle of shame went down Annette’s back. What right had she had in the first place to sniff, even mentally, at Daisy’s “boarding school and country club” athletics? Just because she isn’t like me, she scolded, I felt myself superior, a more “serious” person. My God, if we all would just take a good, honest look at ourselves, we might not always like what we see.
“Hypothermia can put you in the hospital in a few minutes,” Aaron was saying. “That’s all you need.”
Andrew mused, “Funny. When I cleaned the trunk of my car, I was going to take the rope out. I had it there from the time I got stuck in a snow-bank. It was on a ski trip in Vermont,” he added irrelevantly, and added again, “Lucky thing I didn’t.”
“I never learned to swim underwater,” said Mark. “Never learned to resuscitate either. Now I mean to do it.”
“Red Cross,” Lewis advised. “Daisy and I took a course. Very enjoyable too.”
They were all speaking without looking at one another. It was as if, Annette thought, they were addressing a public gathering, or perhaps simply talking to the air, or maybe just thinking out loud.
Cynthia was silent. She was watching Freddie, who, after many patient trials, had managed to build a tower of three blocks. And she tried to remember what she had read in one of her many books—long since given away—about the various stages of child development. What foolish worries we have! As if it matters whether a beautiful, healthy baby like this one is a bit smarter or a bit slower than the baby next door. His cheeks that had been red from the cold were now red from the heat. With a happy laugh he knocked the tower down. Then he began to build it again. She could not take her eyes away from him.
Yet she was aware that Andrew had craned his head in her direction. Whether he was looking at her or at Freddie, she was unable to tell, but it made no difference either way. He didn’t belong here.